


Precipice

by Sionnan



Category: Pacific Rim (2013)
Genre: Angst, Awkward Comfort, Gen, flowers for newt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-24
Updated: 2013-10-24
Packaged: 2017-12-30 08:30:44
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,843
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1016397
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sionnan/pseuds/Sionnan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Flowers for Newt" prompt, spawned by the idea after a group watch of IASIP "Flowers for Charlie". If Charlie's confidence increases with his perceived intelligence, then does that mean Newt's confidence decreases with his perceived inability?</p><p>Hermann finds Newt, after a nearly failed kaiju containment mission.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Precipice

His entire body ached. Which was hardly different from, well, the turn of every day and the gradual, slow decline into another stiff night, like an old man marking the tick of seconds from the old clock in his silent hall. Hermann was well acquainted with the accrual of pain through the course of the day, beginning with the ever present brittle and lancing pain in his leg, until it spread across his body like a cancer, unable to be excised by surgery or chemicals.

His approach to the lab was less a walk and more a hobble, irregular and stuttering. He was glad that he had managed to make it out of the situation room with most of his dignity and cadence intact, until he had gained the long, chilly expanse of hallway. 

Mercifully empty, most of the rest of the Shatterdome currently working to contain the damage left by what was now only the smoldering corpse of a kaiju. Bitter, tired little curses circled his brain, underpowered verbiage for the magnitude of the beast that had crashed across the cityscape.

He had already used up most of his more potent curses, in the tongues he knew, while he barked information and breathlessly watched the Jaegers move in. 

And now all that was left of his rage and his fear was the lightning arc of pain in his bones, and a sense of helplessness. 

He was tired.

The lab burned in its cool fluorescence, as it always did, the irritating hum of the bank lighting all the more excruciatingly obvious, in his weary state and relative silence in the lab. He let out a small, harried breath that sounded too loud, and stopped to struggle out of his overcoat.

He craved this familiarity, this silence, after the screaming activity of the situation room, the dozens of people, the emotions running high and overwhelming him. And still, he was unable to take his usual tack of receding and becoming invisible, letting the situation wash over him. He had to be an adult, and take responsibility and ownership of his work and be confident and -speak up- Hermann, the world would take you for an idiot, otherwise, his father snarled in his ear.

Blast the man. always his voice ringing in Hermann's ears when the wriggling worm of self doubt began turning in his brain.

Damn and blast.

Free of his overheated felt coat, Hermann carefully laid it over the small chair that sat beneath the reading lamp. Steady-- the small gesture of familiarity, of civility, eased the knots in his stomach a little. 

In his slightly crooked posture, the acoustics were just right enough to catch the novel and unusual sound in the lab. 

It wasn't strange that it hadn't been apparent when he first came in-- there was a patina of sound that the lab simply existed in, mostly from Newt's various storage apparatuses. Bent slightly, sound travelled along the expanse of the metal floor, across the broad surfaces that lined Hermann's side of the lab. 

It was a sound that instinctively grabbed at Hermann's heart, in a way that reminded him of broken bones and hoarse, mindless pleas.

He didn't remark the pain in his limbs as he set off in an ungainly limp, his feet striking the floor in lame gallop, sparking a dim thought in the back of his mind that linked Newt's love for ridiculous old movies and Hermann's own disability, in a rather cruel little, "Igor." It faded in his head, as he pushed further back into the lab, past the freshly stocked examining tables (which he hardly had the time to gag for, regardless of the reek), and into the more domestic, shared section.

Their dilapidated refrigerator, jury rigged many times before to continue working, strictly for FOOD, Newton, ONLY food, and so God HELP YOU if I find kaiju viscera in this refrigerator, because I will SKIN YOU ALIVE, MAN.

Their small sofa, hardly enough for three adults to sit in together, if they didn't mind sacrificing every inch of personal space in exchange for slightly lumpy seat cushions. It was on sight of this sad testament of furniture, that Hermann's heart seized and fluttered for a second. 

He was used to Newt's rather extravagant displays of emotion. The man was as volatile as a can of petrol, most of the time, and he was bound to be screaming in either happiness, agony, or just to be sure of his own continued existence in the face of such uncertain life terms as an extended warranty on life while on loan from massive creatures from Beyond.

Hermann had come to terms that this was simply a condition of working and living with the man, had made what little peace he could of it, and resorted to screaming back only largely when necessary, and ignoring his outbursts otherwise.

This sad, crumpled creature, half curled like a child, with his limbs carelessly placed in front of him, hands loosely cupped before his face as though to guard from blows, was not the Newton Geiszler that Hermann was accustomed to. Especially not the hiccuping sobs that rolled through the chest and stomach and jerked his shoulders, forlorn and devastated and utterly alone. 

Hermann heard a small, distressed whine that did not match the timbre of the collapsed biologist in front of him, and then realized, equally distressingly, that it was himself. He clamped his mouth shut against any other traitorous issuance of sound, and resolved in bringing his own limbs together, aligning himself in a more composed fashion. 

This had to be dealt with, an eminently sane and logical voice proffered in his head, which was abruptly silenced as Newt's choked sobs reached a new pitch, and rather ruined whatever ephemeral plan that had been coalescing.

"Newton," Hermann started, in spite of his own inner, more logical counterpart that was desperately trying to match Newton's behavior to some kind of infernal social model, and damn it all this was not going to work, it was just awful.

Newton did not respond, in any way that might have indicated knowledge of another person's presence. He remained wrapped in a small, tattered cocoon of despair that Hermann was finding increasingly difficult to approach. A vague sense of panic began to seep into his chest. "Newton, really, do try to get hold of yourself," and the words spilled from his lips in an odious inflection and delivery that Hermann recognized all too well and despised them just as much.

It was perhaps a mercy, then, that Newton did not respond to this, either. He had stopped crying, but was breathing in short, sharp, gasping pants, the pinnacle of exhausted, near hysterical sorrow.

In a way, Hermann wanted to divorce himself from all this. Step back, and cluck his tongue at the sorry state of what was supposed to be an adult man in a puddle of tears like a small child, go to his side of the lab and start the electric kettle for some tea, and perhaps batter his chalkboard until it was large slabs of slate on his floor.

And by which, Hermann knew he could not step away from Newt who was apparently winding up into a long, downwards spiral that would most likely consume him for the rest of the night. With a small, panicked realization, Hermann knew suddenly that he was really not entirely sure of Newton's overall resilience, if he would be able to recover at all.

The man had taken six doctorates, surely he could deal with the stress of one nearly failed kaiju containment attempt-- a thought that was roughly over swept by Hermann's own ridiculous fantasy to bludgeon his unsuspecting chalkboard to death in some fit of incomprehensible revenge.

He sat on the sliver of couch that was spared in front of Newton's knees. It was easier than he anticipated, some of the muscles in his legs simply giving out before he could maneuver himself tactfully into the space. Newton did not seem to realize that his coworker had rocked into him, and only curled up slightly more in an instinctive bid for self preservation. He had returned to crying quietly, seemingly stuck in an emotional feedback loop.

Hermann was very unused to dealing with these types of situations, and managed to emerge from them by and large unscathed, but admittedly without much finesse. He uncomfortably recalled his return to Hong Kong after a week of leave with Vanessa. He had kissed her tears, from her cheeks, nose, lips, all the while he felt himself burning with shame and panic at his inability to properly comfort his own wife, and she had burst into watery laughter and likened him to an overly concerned dog. 

This man's shattered form, stretched across the small sofa, was hardly a wife to whom he could kiss away pain. But by god did he recall Hermann's younger siblings, unused to the world and sorely tried by it's impatience and insistence on their every last drop of blood and brilliance.

This somehow broke the frozen bank of cognitive ice, as a remembered gesture pushed his hand out, and laid it softly on Newt's wracking back. His skin was warm, beneath the thinness of the white, button up shirt, nearly too warm. He smelled of the acidic tang of terror-sweat, the cloying sweetness of his hair product, the ever present formaldehyde and ammonia.

Hermann's hand had taken up a slow, rhythmic circling on Newt's back, which had by some evolutionary magic managed to calm Newt into a more relaxed sprawl of limbs. His breathing was starting to even into long, shuddering gasps. They reminded Hermann of his younger brother Bastien, his first failed mark in university, the fall out between their father. The long weekend which had started with Hermann comforting his brother, stroking the sobs out from his ribs.

And so he asked Newton now what he asked Bastien then, in much the same tone of voice: tired, and patient, and gentle. "What happened?"

A long stretch of silence, and Newt let go of more pent up emotion in a hitched sigh. He made a garbled, indeterminate sound, his mouth swollen from tears. "Doesn't matter." The words were small, and utterly defeated. Hermann's chest grabbed again, and he wanted to either shake the man or stroke his hair the way he did Bastien's. He settled for continuing the circular pattern on the other scientist's back. 

"Yes. It does."

And a horribly honest, thin keen came from Newton's mouth, until it tapered into silence. "I'm done. I'm done, I can't anymore, I'm through. I don't have it anymore, I can't. I can't."

Hermann could not even pretend to understand what made sense to Newt that he did or didn't possess in this situation. But he felt important to halt this descent. "No, you do. You have it, and you can do it." His hand had gone up to the back of Newt's head, and yes he was pretty sure he was now cradling the smaller man's skull, but so be it.

"No, I can't. I can't." And the convinced helplessness in Newt's voice broke his heart, just a little. "I'm such a fucking impostor, I can't help fix, I can't save anything or anyone and I'm such a goddamn failure."

Oh, no.

"Oh, no. No, Newton, no," and his own voice had all of the same gentle cajoling he heard when he spoke to his brother, those years ago, and he hears it now as he coaxes a colleague back from a brink neither of them were prepared to face.

He suspects that Newton is hardly aware of the words that come out of his mouth, as he likely never would have even alluded to such self debasing thoughts to Hermann. Then again, in the wake of a major disaster, of which Kaiju Science was woefully flat footed for the first hour, this kind of reaction could hardly be surprising. Even for someone like Newton Geiszler.

Rather, especially for someone like Newt Geiszler.

"Newt, stop. Stop this and listen to me. Your information was timely and important. Did you hear me? Timely and important, and you SAVED LIVES, man. People are alive because of your efforts, not dead in spite of them." Hermann realized he had taken a grip of Newt's upturned shoulder with both hands, and he gave it a light shake, the stimulus jerking Newt into silence. A long, listening silence etched across the air between them. 

"People are alive, because of your efforts."

And this time, Newton did not respond, but the deaf and total despair had left the lines of his limbs. Hermann, nearly pressed bodily against the other man's side, could feel it inasmuch as he could see it. Newt gave another, long sigh, and Hermann recognized it's components from long, trying nights in the lab rather than from emotional abandon. They had stepped back, however minutely and precariously, from the precipice. 

In a strained, watery, and somewhat hoarse voice, Newt offered, "I'm the stupidest fucking guy who hold six doctorates."

Hermann found he didn't have the heart to resume his normal habit of upbraiding and baiting the man, but really found no way to diplomatically navigate that statement. He absently ran the curve of his thumb behind Newt's ear, where his hand was still cupping the back of Newt's head. "I don't understand," he concluded truthfully.

"It's okay." Newt's voice was more recognizable, although still clouded with tears.

Well. That could scarcely be agreed with, as he had literally just found his lab mate in a nervous breakdown, but he felt that conceding some points was in order. "I doubt that. But how are you?"

A studied lapse into silence, and then, "Better." Then, in a terrifyingly open manner, Newt admitted, "It's hard, sometimes, you know? I just... you know how you think you got this, you got everything, and then suddenly you fucking don't, and it's awful?"

Yes. Hermann was well acquainted with that feeling. He knew Newton could not see his nod, as the man's eyes were still pressed into his hands, but he anticipated that Newt could feel his assent. 

"It's hard to realize that being smart isn't enough, you know?" Newt finished, words muffled by the now damp cushions, and Hermann found that to be a depressingly insightful and relatable sentiment.

"Yes," he mused in sympathy, and continued his unconscious physical soothing. He was slightly taken aback to feel one of Newt's (damp, warm) hands fold across the hand he still had clamped on the biologist's shoulder. His mind flashed bewilderingly to Vanessa when he felt Newt's thumb ghost over one of Hermann's knuckles, and he realized that Newt was reciprocating the comfort. 

He warred briefly between retracting and retreating to his own side of the lab, where he could ensconce himself in the lovely distance of equations and their simplicity and easily understood nature, and staying upon infirm ground, where a desperate wind snatched desperate words from his mouth in an attempt to reach the person poised to jump.

You aren't sure, a small voice insisted that sounded more like Hermann than Hermann had ever cared to fully examine, you can't be sure if you can walk away yet. Don't walk away.

Hermann slowly righted himself, feeling his back screaming at him for the punishing position he had contorted into in order to soothe Newt. His leg added it's pain to the symphony, and he reached up to press a thumb against his temple. He felt older than god, right now. 

He jerked when he felt a hand in his, and then relaxed. Newt's relative quiet had a focused quality now, intent and conscious. He didn't move, or even turn to look at Hermann at all, but Hermann couldn't suppress a small smile, when Newt positioned his hand so that the ball of his thumb was placing firm pressure, coupled with a circling gesture, against the tense muscle clump between his forefinger and thumb. 

There was something in being offered comfort by a biologist; Newton’s knowledge of anatomy was impeccable, and he had several times before demonstrated to Newt the chains and links of muscles groups to each other, and how they interacted to “fuck him up”. He felt the muscles along his arm, shoulder, and neck relax under the attention, and with a sharp breath, his intercostals suddenly eased.

Hermann knew, as his beleaguered mind slipped into a hazy state, post existential panic caused by a myriad of sources, that this was going to transition into a long night. But the thought was without grudge, and he felt the silence between them somehow companionable, after the hectic past half day, and the emotional eruption. He left his hand on the back of Newton’s head, pressing against the residual tension he could feel, and Newt’s strong fingers still worked into the muscles in his hand.

They sat in silence, for a long time. There was little left to say.


End file.
